He slithered over the edge, still on his stomach, and let his weight slide him down between long-spined thorn bushes, the rifle held ahead of him, and suddenly there was a challenge. ‘Who goes there?’ It was a hoarse, frightened whisper.
‘Sharpe! Who’s that?’
‘Peters, sir. Thank God you’re here.’
He saw the man’s shape, crouched beneath a bush beside the water. He went close. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Don’t know, sir. Captain went forward, sir.’ Peters pointed towards the dam. ‘That was ten minutes ago, sir. Left me here. Do you think they’ve gone, sir?’
‘No. Stay here.’ He patted the man’s shoulder. ‘They’ll come back this way. You’ll be all right.’
Rymer and the sappers could not be far away, being remarkably silent, and Sharpe waded up the stream, the water up to his knees, and waited for a challenge. It came twenty yards from the dam, just beneath the fort, where small trees arched up over the Rivillas. ‘Who goes there?’
‘Sharpe!’ He whispered. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Hakeswill.’ There was a hint of a chuckle. ‘Come to help?’
Sharpe ignored it. ‘Where’s Captain Rymer?’
‘Here!’ The voice came from beyond Hakeswill and Sharpe pushed past the Sergeant, smelling the man’s breath, and saw a glint of gold from Rymer’s uniform. ‘The Colonel sent me. He’s nervous.’
‘So am I.’ Rymer offered no further information.
‘What’s happening?’
‘The powder’s laid, the sappers have gone back, and Fitchett’s up there. He should be putting in the fuse!’ Rymer sounded nervous and Sharpe could understand it. If the dam blew now, by mistake, then the Company would be caught by a wall of water.
There were footsteps from the rampart of the fort, just thirty feet above them, and Sharpe heard Rymer draw in breath. The footsteps sounded casual. Rymer began to breathe out. ‘Oh, God! No!’
A flicker of flame, the size of a candle, that seemed to waver, go out, then spring up fierce and bright. In its light Sharpe could see two men, blue uniformed, who held the carcass and then tossed it out over the ravine so that it fell, sparks flying up from it, down to the streambed. Pieces of burning straw exploded from the carcass, it rolled on the ravine side, tumbling flame, and plunged into the stream. It hissed. The flames flickered, trying to hold the top edge, and then died. Rymer’s breath came out in a long, long sigh. Sharpe put his mouth close to Rymer’s ear. ‘Where are your men?’
‘Some here. Most have gone.’
The answer was not much help. Another flame appeared on the ramparts, grew like the first, and this time the French held it longer so that the fire caught fiercely on the oil-soaked straw so that it blazed like a signal beacon. They rolled it over the edge, it bounced once, spraying sparks, and then caught on a thorn bush. The thorns crackled and flared and in the sudden light Sharpe could see the Engineer Lieutenant, Fitchett, crouching motionless by a stack of barrels. The French must see him!
But the French were not sure what they were looking for. Orders had come to look in the ravine, and so they peered over the edge and saw strange dark shadows, which was what a man expected to see at night, and they saw no movement so they relaxed. Sharpe could see the two men clearly. They seemed glad to be away from the front of the fort, were talking and laughing, and then they jerked upright, disappearing from sight, and there came the bark of an order and he supposed an officer had come to the rampart.
Fitchett moved. He began scrambling towards Rymer and Sharpe, trying to move silently, but he was panicked by the burning carcass and he slipped, falling into the stream. A shout from the rampart, an officer’s head leaning over the stone, and Fitchett had the sense to freeze and Sharpe saw the officer turn and shout a command. Flames came again on the rampart, a third carcasss, and Sharpe knew they would have to fight. Rymer stared up at the fort, his mouth open.
Sharpe nudged him. ‘Shoot the officer.’
‘What?’
‘Shoot the bastard! You’ve got Riflemen, haven’t you?’
Rymer still did not move so Sharpe took his own Baker rifle, lifted the frizzen to check with a finger that the powder was still in the pan, and then aimed it up, through the stark thorn branches, towards the rampart. Rymer seemed to wake up. ‘Don’t fire!’
The third carcass was hurled over the rampart, far across so that it bounced on the far side of the ravine and wedged itself on a rock. Fitchett saw it, apparantly falling towards him, and yelped and sprang towards the hidden Company. The French officer shouted.
‘Don’t fire!’ Rymer hit Sharpe’s shoulder, ruining his aim so he kept his finger off the trigger. Fitchett fell into the thorn trees, rubbing his ribs where he had fallen. He had remembered the fuse and was trailing it, but Sharpe wondered if any had fallen with the Lieutenant into the water. Fitchett looked wildly round. ‘The lantern!’
There was a dark lantern hidden in the trees. Rymer and Fitchett both started looking, bumping into each other, and the first French musket hammered from the ramparts and the ball struck the trunk of one of the trees and Fitchett swore again. ‘Jesus! Hurry!’
The French officer leaned over the ravine, searching the shadows, and Sharpe saw the shot, pulled the trigger, and the man went up and backwards, his face smashed red by the bullet and Rymer stared at Sharpe. ‘Why did you do that?’
Sharpe did not bother to answer. Fitchett had found the lantern, unclipped the door, and a beam of light slanted in the thorns. ‘Quick! Quick!’ Fitchett was talking to himself. He found the fuse, thrust the end into the flame, and waited till it was spluttering. ‘Back! Back!’
Rymer did not wait to see the fuse burning. ‘Back!’ He was shouting. ‘Back!’
Sharpe grabbed Fitchett. ‘How long?’
‘Thirty seconds! Let’s go!’ A second musket exploded on the ramparts, the ball thudding into the earth, and the group of men stampeded down the streambed, led by Rymer, all imagining the sudden leap of powder flame, the shock wave, and the crashing, killing water.
The French, suddenly bereft of their officer, shouted for help. They could see nothing in the light of the carcasses, hear nothing in the lingering echo of their musket shots. Sharpe waited, watching the flickering light of the fuse, listening to the sudden rush of feet on the ramparts. The fuse was burning well, creeping towards the dam, and he turned and climbed the ravine wall, hard by the stonework of the fort, and a voice stopped him. ‘It was a nice shot.’
‘Patrick?’
‘Aye.’ The Donegal voice was very low. ‘I thought I’d see if you needed any help.’ A huge hand clasped Sharpe’s wrist and he was hauled unceremoniously to the brink of the ravine. ‘That lot ran fast enough.’
‘Be drowned otherwise.’ Sharpe wedged himself against the base of a thorn bush. He tried to guess the number of seconds since Fitchett had lit the fuse; twenty? twenty-five? At least he and Harper should be safe. They were high on the bank, just across from the shallow ditch that left the ravine at a right angle to protect the small fort. The French were shouting excitedly; Sharpe heard the rattle of ramrods in musket barrels and then a crisp voice cutting through the chaos. He looked at Harper’s vast bulk crouched in deep shadow. ‘How’s your back?’
‘Bloody hurts, sir.’
Sharpe waited for the explosion, pushing himself down to the earth, imagining the kegs splintering and the wooden shards driven outwards. It must be soon! Perhaps Fitchett had used more fuse than he thought?
The volley from the ramparts startled him. The French fired down the ravine and Sharpe heard the balls crash through the thorn spikes like the ripping of calico. A bird screeched indignantly,